No. 163 - Two Mornings in Texas

There are two mornings in Texas—gloomy or glorious—and the good Lord didn’t see to putting a damn thing in between.

Gloomy – There are days when you wake up to an ethereal gloom, blanketing the whole of creation. It’s not New England dark, and it’s not Pacific Northwest gray. It’s an imperious theater of melancholy—an oppressive palette of Texas colors—a sky of sagebrush and sand, of dead twigs and horse hide, of limestone and granite.

Glorious – There are days when you wake up to so much blue it blinds you. The leaves on the oaks shine, the chlorophyll in the grass twinkles, and a chorus of songbirds swoon.

I’ve said it since I got here: Texas shares the skies of Wyoming—they’re impossibly massive, worthy of a poem, intensely emotional. When they’re happy, you know it. And when they’re angry, there’s no escape.

The first thing I do when I wake up is wonder what mood the skies are in. I wear a sleep mask (trick of the trade for a traveler), so when I wake, my eyes are still in pitch black. It’s by design—to make at least one part of my day uniform, no matter if I’m in New York or Texas. But when that mask comes off—at least here in Austin—I immediately know what mood Mother Nature is in.

And she changes her mood throughout the day. She may start out angrier than a hornet, but by lunch, she’s lightened up… casting a bronze glow over Hill Country.

Other days, she cries—and she cries furiously. “Gully washers,” as they say, roar with thunder, but her tears eventually fade, and her glow returns.

I’ve come to believe Mother Nature calls Texas home—and her daughters, well, they just visit other states.

I can’t make heads or tails of this place. I doubt I ever will. And I don’t think I want to.

Texas is as complex as it is straightforward—a paradox that needn’t explain itself.

*Composed, Edited, and Published in Austin, TX